


On the Other Side

by verysorrytobother



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reverse Portal (Gravity Falls), Angst, Angst and Feels, Badass Ford Pines, Badass Stan Pines, Blood and Violence, Brotherly Bonding, Brothers, Hurt, I'm new to this, Multiverse, Outer Space, Paranoid Ford Pines, Stan Pines Goes Through The Portal, Stangst, The Portal (Gravity Falls), Violence, portal ford, sorry if I'm doing these tags wrong, space pirate Stan Pines, space stan, this is in NO WAY stancest and if you tag it as such I will put toenails in your spaghetti
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27384445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verysorrytobother/pseuds/verysorrytobother
Summary: When Stan falls through the portal, Ford is determined to get him back...until Bill Cipher informs him that his brother is already dead. Filled with rage and guilt, Ford vows revenge against the dream demon. Meanwhile, Stanley travels the multiverse, searching for a way home.
Relationships: Bill Cipher & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Ford Pines & Original Character(s), Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Stan Pines & Original Character(s)
Comments: 77
Kudos: 117





	1. Chapter 1

“Some brother you turned out to be.”

Stanley scooped up the journal with one hand and clutched his burning shoulder with the other, face twisted in a grimace of pain. Stanford scrambled to his feet, glaring him down. The portal crackled and spun behind them, casting an unnatural blue glow over Stan’s face.

“You care more about your dumb mysteries than your family? Well, then—”

Stan was cut off as Ford lunged forward, tackling him to the ground. He wrestled the book from Stan’s hands and shoved him away. Stan staggered to his feet, and for a brief moment it looked like the fighting was going to continue.

**_“WARNING: GRAVITATIONAL ANOMALY NOW IN PROGRESS.”_ **

No sooner had the automated voice made its announcement than the entire basement jolted. Stan stumbled backwards over a black and yellow line. Suddenly, his feet weren’t touching the ground.

Ford yelped as he too began to float, and he quickly grabbed a bit of protruding pipe sticking out from the wall to keep from hitting the ceiling. He looked around and saw with mounting horror that Stanley had crossed the caution line.

“Stan! Get away from the portal!”

“What’s goin’ on?” Stan shouted, arms and legs flailing frantically. “Ford, what do I do?”

“You need to propel yourself to this side of the room! Move your arms and legs like you’re swimming!” Ford shouted. He let go of the pipe and grasped a long cable floating nearby, edging along until there was only a yard separating him and Stanley.

But despite Stan’s valiant efforts at mid-air swimming, the portal was drawing him in.

“Ford!” His eyes were wide, filled with fear. “Stanford, do something!”

Ford couldn’t loosen his grip on the cable, or he’d only drift farther from his brother. He kept one hand on the cable and stretched out the other as far as it could go, muscles straining. “Stan, grab my hand!”

For a split second, six fingers brushed against five.

_“High six?”_

_“High six!”_

But then another pulse reverberated through the basement, and Stan was yanked back by an invisible force. He screamed as the blue glow of the portal swallowed him, hand still outstretched.

And then he was gone.

The portal shuddered and dimmed, and Ford—along with various pieces of equipment and machinery—dropped to the ground. Ford landed hard on the cement floor, the wind knocked out of him. A trickle of blood ran from his nose.

He blinked rapidly, struggling to regain his breath. Then he rocketed to his feet.

“STANLEY!”

He ran to the portal, banging his fists on the cool metal. “Stanley, come back, I didn’t mean it!” A soft burbling noise came from somewhere behind him, and he turned to see the fuel reserves completely depleted. No, no no. This was all wrong, this wasn’t supposed to happen…

Ford grasped at his hair, hyperventilating. Something in his periphery caught his attention, discarded where it’d fallen, and his heart sank.

The journal.

_The journal he’d killed his brother for._

Ford shook his head abruptly at the thought. No, Stan would be fine. He _was_ fine. Ford would fix the portal, he’d get his hands on more radioactive waste—it had been hard enough convincing the government to hand it over the first time, but he’d explain the situation, surely they’d allow him to—and he’d need another set of hands, Fiddleford was most likely still angry but he was the only qualified—

Another thought suddenly struck him. Fiddleford. He’d spent less than a minute on the other side of the portal, and it had driven him insane. Ford shuddered at the memory of his friend’s limp body and vacant eyes, trembling and muttering gibberish. The Nightmare Realm had taken one of the most brilliant minds Ford had ever known and reduced it to a blabbering mess.

And Stan was _stuck_ over there.

Tears stung his eyes.

Oh, Moses. What had he done?

* * *

“WELL, WELL, WELL! IF IT ISN’T STANLEY PINES!”

Stan’s eyes snapped open and he quickly sat up, groaning at the sudden rush of nausea. If the throbbing in his skull was anything to go by, he’d hit his head on something when he fell through the...what had Ford called it? Trans-universal gateymajig? Eh, close enough.

“BOY, TAKE YOUR SWEET TIME GETTING UP AND AT ‘EM, FEZ! IT’S NOT LIKE YOU’RE STRANDED IN A DIMENSION OF UNENDING CHAOS AND HORROR!”

Stan stood and whirled around, fists at the ready, then frowned. He must’ve hit his head harder than he thought, because it looked like the source of the discordant voice addressing him was...a yellow triangle. Specifically, a yellow triangle with one eye, wearing a bow tie and a top hat.

What the **(CENSORED)**?

“IT’S GREAT TO FINALLY MEET YOU!” the triangle said, settling back comfortably on a large chair—throne? It seemed to be constantly shifting and changing, and it hurt Stan’s eyes to look at it too long. “THE NAME’S BILL CIPHER, AND I’D LIKE TO PERSONALLY WELCOME YOU TO THE NIGHTMARE REALM!”

“Uh…” Stan glanced around at the swirling void around them, and realized he was on a large asteroid, one of many drifting through space. “Right...well, it’s been great, but I think I’ve gotta—” The words died on his lips as he turned around and was met with more unending darkness.

The portal was gone.

The triangle—Bill—laughed. “BOY, YOU SURE ARE DUMB!” he said in that same grating, jeering voice. “THE GATEWAY RAN OUT OF FUEL, FEZ. LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE STUCK OUT HERE!”

“What the heck are you?” Stan snapped, glaring at him. “And why do you keep calling me _fez?”_

Bill grinned—or, at least, Stan _thought_ he did, it was kinda hard to tell when his only facial feature was an eye—and twirled a cane that had suddenly appeared in his hand.

“I’M A MUSE! THAT’S WHAT I TOLD YOUR BROTHER, ANYWAY.” Bill laughed. “FOR A GENIUS, HE SURE IS GULLIBLE!”

Stan’s eyes widened. The pieces were starting to fit together. Ford’s paranoid rambling, his whole doomsday spiel—it all had to have something to do with this Bill guy. And if the portal led to _this_ place…

...well, no wonder Ford had been so insistent on shutting it down.

“HE’S NOT BEING SUPER COOPERATIVE, THOUGH,” Bill continued. Suddenly, he snapped his finger. “BUT HEY, PROBLEM SOLVED! I’LL GET HIM TO WORK ON THE PORTAL. I JUST NEED THE RIGHT…”

Bill grew until he was looming over Stan, and his once-yellow color was now a burning red.

_**“...LEVERAGE.”** _

Stan barely had time to dodge as Bill’s hand made a grab at him. His feet slipped and he went tumbling over the side of the asteroid, floating through empty space. Everything was happening too fast, he didn’t know what to do—

_“Move your arms and legs like you’re swimming!”_

Stan took a deep breath. “Here goes nothin’, Poindexter.” To his surprise and relief, he shot forward. It was easier without a portal sucking him in, and had circumstances been less dire, the lack of gravity might’ve actually been fun.

But circumstances _were_ dire. He needed a place to hide, and fast.

He caught sight of a passing asteroid with a cavernous opening. He rocketed towards it without a second thought, bending his knees as he braced for impact. He quickly slipped inside, and found himself in a rather large cave. He pressed himself flat against the rock as Bill’s voice echoed through the Nightmare Realm.

“STANLEY WANTS TO PLAY HIDE-AND-SEEK! FIRST ONE TO FIND HIM AND BRING HIM TO ME GETS THEIR OWN GALAXY!”

A chorus of unearthly howls and laughter reached his ears. Stan couldn’t see what the monsters searching for him looked like, but if their voices were anything to go by, he decided that he didn’t want to. After his heart rate had slowed down a bit, he peeled himself off the wall and trekked deeper into the cave.

 _Just gotta lay low,_ he thought, gripping the brass knuckles in his pockets. _This isn’t all that different from Jimmy, or Rico, or heck, even that one village in Pennsylvania...you’ve been on the run for ten years. You can do this. You’ve just gotta wait for Ford to reopen the portal…_

Stanley stopped.

Ford.

Why would Ford bother to rescue him?

After all, Stan had screwed everything up. _Again._ He should’ve just taken that stupid book and left, and none of this would have happened. It didn’t matter what he’d been hoping for—reconciliation? Forgiveness? He didn’t know anymore—either way, it was clear that Ford wanted nothing to do with him.

_Except maybe to send me on an errand._

Stan gritted his teeth. Fine. That was it, then. Ford wouldn’t be opening the portal, especially not if “the whole universe was at stake” or whatever. Stan wasn’t worth the risk.

He’d just have to find his own way back.

_“I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”_

He rounded a corner and gasped.

There, huddled around a strangely purple campfire, was a group of aliens.


	2. Chapter 2

The mindscape was different than Ford remembered. 

At first, he couldn’t place what it was. It just felt...wrong. Off. The portal looming in the distance was decrepit and tilted to the side, looking as though a gust of wind could easily knock it over. But it had been like that for weeks now, ever since Fiddleford’s accident. 

That left the _Stan O’ War_ and the swing set. Ford couldn’t be sure if there was truly anything different about his childhood boat, at least not without boarding it—which he was definitely _not_ going to do—but he could easily inspect the swing set. 

And after doing so, he determined that the distinct lack of a second swing must indeed be what was contributing to the uneasy atmosphere.

“WELL, WELL, WELL, WELL, WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL WELL!” 

Bill Cipher materialized with a small _pop!_ , his voice ringing through the mindscape. Ford’s eyes narrowed and he clenched his teeth. 

“Bill.” 

Bill laughed. “IT’S BEEN A WHILE! WHAT, ALMOST TWO WEEKS? I’M IMPRESSED WITH YOU, SIXER! I WAS BETTING ON YOU PASSING OUT A LOT SOONER. BUT YOU KNOW HOW HUMAN MEATSUITS ARE. THEY NEED THINGS LIKE ‘FOOD’ AND ‘WATER’ AND **_‘SLEEP.’_ ** _”_ He snapped his fingers, and Ford saw a vision of himself slumped over the portal’s control panel. He’d collapsed, exhausted, after trying in vain to repair the parts of the machine that had broken during the gravitational anomaly. 

Ford straightened and clenched his fists. “Quit the games, Cipher!” he snapped. “If I’m asleep, you already have access to my body and mind. So what could you possibly want from me?” 

Bill studied him for a minute, then sighed. “YOU’RE NO FUN ANYMORE.” He straightened his bow tie and hat. “ALRIGHT, SO HERE’S THE THING, IQ. SURE, I _CAN_ POSSESS YOU, BUT YOUR BODY’S NOT EXACTLY IN TIP-TOP SHAPE AT THE MOMENT. I WON’T BE ABLE TO GET MUCH DONE WITH A BROKEN PUPPET.” 

Ford furrowed his brow. He supposed it made sense, but it almost seemed too easy a solution. Neglect himself to keep Bill out? 

“SO, I THINK I’M GONNA MOVE ON TO GREENER PASTURES,” Bill continued, grinning (though how Ford could tell when the demon’s only facial feature was an eye, he wasn’t sure). “FIND ANOTHER DIMENSION WHERE YOU’RE NOT SO USELESS. I KNOW, I KNOW, YOU’RE DEVASTATED TO SEE ME GO. DON’T WORRY—IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S ME.” 

Ford’s heart skipped a beat. This was a trick. It had to be. There was simply no way that after everything he’d been through—the sleepless nights, the strange cuts and bruises, the _eyes,_ oh Moses, the eyes—there was no way that Bill was just going to _leave_. 

Right? 

“What’s the catch?” Ford asked, glaring at him suspiciously. 

Bill’s eye widened in mock surprise. “CATCH? THERE’S NO CATCH! JUST THOUGHT I’D GIVE YOU A HEADS-UP, IS ALL. FOR OLD-TIME’S SAKE. AFTER ALL, WE WERE BEST FRIENDS, ONCE UPON A TIME!” 

Ford felt a burning rage bubbling up inside of him. “You were never my friend,” he said, his voice rising. “You _lied_ to me, you _manipulated_ me. And while I may not be the most socially competent individual, I am fairly certain that ‘friends’ do not stab forks into each other's arms!” 

Bill rolled his eye. “JEEZ, TOUCHY SUBJECT,” he said. “SO, I GUESS THIS MEANS YOU DON’T WANT YOUR GOODBYE PRESENT?” 

Ford stiffened. _I swear, if this is another disembodied head that’s always screaming…_

“HERE, I’LL GIVE YOU A HINT,” Bill went on, twirling his cane. “WHAT HAS TWO THUMBS, RUINED YOUR LIFE, AND REALLY NEEDS A HAIRCUT?” 

Ford’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach. 

Bill had Stanley. 

He’d no doubt try to use him as leverage in getting Ford to restart the portal. And yes, Ford had been trying to reopen the gateway for two days, intent on rescuing Stan from whatever horrors dwelt in the Nightmare Realm—but now, with Bill hovering menacingly beside him, he realized...he couldn’t do that. _Wouldn’t_ do that. Repairing the portal could destroy the universe as they knew it, and it would be playing right into Bill’s hand. 

There had to be another way. There was _always_ another way. And he would find it. The important thing now was that Stan was alive; as long as Ford kept Bill convinced that he’d do anything to save him—

“BOY, WHO KNEW THAT HAVING YOUR MOLECULES DISASSEMBLED COULD BE SO PAINFUL?” 

Everything stopped. The breeze that had been ruffling the wheat fields of Ford’s mindscape immediately stilled, the trees in the distance no longer swayed. The sail of the _Stan O’ War_ hung limply from its mast. 

The swingset let out a low creak. 

When Ford spoke, it was with a quiet voice that he didn’t recognize as his own. 

“What did you do to him?” 

Bill reclined in mid-air, lacing his hands behind his head (or, at least, the spot behind his eye). “WELL, I REMEMBERED HOW MUCH YOU HATED THE GUY. SO WHEN HE POPPED UP IN MY DIMENSION, I FIGURED I’D TAKE HIM OFF YOUR HANDS FOR YOU! SURPRISE!” A shower of confetti sprinkled through the air, covering Ford’s hair. He didn’t even notice. He simply stood there, dazed, heart pounding in his ears. 

“You’re lying.” 

Bill raised an eyebrow. (He didn’t have an eyebrow.) “JEEZ, FORDSY. I THOUGHT YOU’D BE MORE EXCITED ABOUT THIS! I MEAN, ALL HE EVER DID WAS **_LIE. CHEAT. RIDE ON YOUR COATTAILS_ ** **.** ” Images flashed across Bill’s triangular surface, so fast that Ford almost couldn’t process them. Stan fleeing from a broken jewelry case with a gold chain in his hand. Stan leaning over a desk, copying Ford’s answers. Stan laughing nervously as Ford faced him, an empty toffee peanuts bag clenched in his fist. 

Stan gripping his burned shoulder, hatred and betrayal in his eyes. 

Ford slowly looked up at Bill.

“I’m going to kill you,” he said softly. A deep chill had spread itself through his body, and he felt cold. Numb. “I swear, I’m going to kill you.” 

Bill laughed, harsh and grating. “YOU KNOW, IT WOULD BE FUN TO WATCH YOU TRY! CUTE, EVEN! BUT AS MUCH AS I’D LOVE TO STAY AND SEE YOU SLOWLY DETERIORATE INTO MADNESS, I’VE GOT ANOTHER DIMENSION TO VISIT. ANOTHER PORTAL TO BUILD!” He tipped his hat. “SEE YA, CHUMP!” 

* * *

Ford woke with a start. He bolted upright from his position slumped over the monitors, gasping for air. As he sat there, staring at the darkened portal through the glass, the numbness slowly ebbed away. He grabbed his hair, clenching until it hurt. 

No, no, no no no—

_Stanley is dead._

He couldn’t be. 

_You were too late._

Two days ago, Stan had been fine. Alive. He couldn’t just be…

 _Your brother is dead and it’s yoUR FAULT AND HE’S GONE FOREVER AND_ **_YOU DID THIS_ ** _—_

With a roar, Ford stood and swept his piles of blueprints and journals off the control panel. Papers scattered across the floor as he pounded on the buttons and levers, some breaking apart under his fists. He punched the window, and a crack webbed its way across the class. His hands bled and stung, but he paid them no mind. He continued lashing out, screaming, throwing things across the room. Everything was blurry—why was everything blurry? He was wearing his glasses—and finally, when there was nothing left to break, he fell back into his chair. 

He put his head in his hands. 

_Stanley is dead._

And Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world, broke down and wept. 


	3. Chapter 3

A siren blared. Flashing lights painted the corridor red as Stanley ran, breathing heavily. Though his past few weeks on the prison planet Reyjak-12 had certainly taken its toll on his weight, he was still out of shape. He turned down another hallway, this one lined with steel elevators. He counted them in his head as he ran. 

_Seventeen...eighteen...nineteen…_

He skidded to a stop at the twentieth elevator. He fumbled in his pocket for the ID card he’d swiped from a guard that morning. He inserted it into the slot, gritting his teeth and mumbling under his breath as it processed. 

“Come on, come on!” 

After an agonizingly long moment, a light above the slot blinked green and the elevator doors slid open. He jumped inside, jamming his thumb repeatedly on the “close doors” button. It did nothing. Of course. 

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, coming closer and closer. Stan was just able to make out the shadows of guards rounding the corner as the elevator closed. 

Each elevator had only one destination. This particular one led to cell blocks 50-80. Stan tapped his fingers against his leg as he descended, bouncing impatiently. He could no longer hear the sirens—the only sound was the elevator thrumming downward. 

Suddenly, the compartment shuddered and jolted to a stop. Stan crashed to the floor, cursing. _Guards must’ve shut down the elevators._

He pulled a pen out from behind his ear and clicked it twice. A red light emitted from the tip. He pointed the laser in a (somewhat lopsided) circle, cutting through the floor. He lowered himself through the hole, gripping the elevator’s steel cables. He glanced down into the seemingly bottomless darkness and quickly squeezed his eyes shut, hissing through his teeth. 

“Fine time to be afraid of heights, Stan,” he grumbled. 

He inched his way down the cables slowly until he reached the bottom. His hands slipped, causing him to fall the last few feet. Stan hit the ground with a loud _oomph,_ then quickly stood and dusted himself off. He could barely make out the outline of the elevator doors leading to the cell block. He clicked his laser pen back on with a grin. 

Soon, he was crawling through a newly-carved hole into the corridor. On these lower levels, the sirens weren’t blaring and the lights weren’t flashing. It was far enough beneath the facility that he supposed it wasn’t necessary—after all, no one would suspect an escapee to be breaking back in. 

“Block 60, block 60, where is... _ah hah_!” He turned down the correct hallway. Cells lined the walls, with crackling energy fields keeping prisoners inside. Without hesitating, Stan ran to one near the end; cell 61-8. Prisoners began rumbling and stirring awake at the commotion. 

“Tuloch!” Stanley hissed, cutting open a control panel and frying through the wires. “Wake up, buddy!” 

Tuloch shuffled forward from the darkness of the cell, rubbing his eyes. His leathery skin sagged with wrinkles, and his posture was perpetually stooped from the large, tortoise-like shell on his back. 

“Stanley?” he croaked, edging closer to the flickering blue bars. “Is that you?” 

“In the flesh.” Stanley finished his work on the panel, and the energy field let out a low hum as it shut down. “C’mon, we gotta get outta here.” 

They ran down the corridor, albeit at a slower pace than before. Still, Stan was surprised at Tuloch’s speed. _Not bad for an old man._

“Hey!” a prisoner in 60-4 shouted as they sped past. “What about the rest of us?” 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been jerks!” Stan called back over his shoulder. Some prisoners hurled obscenities and insults as the pair ran, while others cheered them on. 

“You’re insane,” Tuloch panted as they reached the elevator. Stanley helped him through the hole in the doors. “You should’ve just gone on without me.” 

“No way was I leaving you here,” Stan said. 

_“Wherever we go, we go together!”_

Tuloch patted him on the shoulder with a tired smile. “And I appreciate that. Now, what’s the plan?” 

Stan sighed, looking up at the elevator suspended high above them. “I guess we’ll have to climb up. Guards’ll be waiting at the terminal for an elevator to arrive, so our best bet is probably through the roof.” 

Tuloch looked up and whistled. “I don’t think we’ll make it very high.” 

Stan sighed. “Yeah, me neither.” 

They stood in silence for a moment. Tuloch's eyes squinted through the darkness, then widened. 

“Stanley!” he whispered, pointing at a spot on the wall about halfway between them and the dangling elevator. “Look, I think it’s a trash chute!” 

Stan looked where he was pointing and frowned. “I don’t see anything.” 

“Well, I _can_ see in the dark better than you.” 

Stanley shrugged. “Yeah, that’s fair. I guess climbing twenty feet beats climbing a hundred, right?” 

* * *

The Reyjak system’s sun had been steadily burning out for the past thousand years or so. It glowed a dull red in the sky, and most of its revolving planets were cracked and barren wastelands. With no means of agriculture or industry, Reyjak became a dimension of exile. Most planets and moons had been converted into prisons, iron-gray facilities lining their surfaces as far as the eye could see. Reyjak-12 was no exception. 

Yet despite the inhospitable landscape, certain creatures managed to persist. 

A lone Groxlergh crept through the alleyway between facilities 4 and 5, scratching at the dusty earth every now and then. Its ears twitched, straining for any sign of trouble. When nothing happened, it continued on its way to the enormous dumpster. It found a rancid-smelling wrapper and nibbled hungrily, hissing at the smaller Rettlings that came too close. 

Suddenly, two large _thumps_ and a loud _BANG_ sounded from inside the dumpster. The Groxlergh shrieked and scampered away, wrapper left discarded in the dirt. After some muffled groans and the sound of a laser cutting through metal, a large panel fell away from the dumpster, edges singed. Stanley rolled out, landing none-too-gracefully in the dust. Tuloch climbed out after him. 

Stanley sat up and looked around, face breaking into a grin. “HA! We did it! Man, there is _no_ way that should’ve realistically worked!” He pumped the air with his fists. Tuloch swiveled his waist with a grimace, a loud _crack_ echoing in his shell. 

“That was...unpleasant. And I don’t think I want to know how you managed to smuggle that laser pen in.” 

“Hey, laugh all you want, but without it we wouldn’t have busted out.” 

Tuloch frowned. “We’re not out of the woods yet. We still need to find a ship.” 

Stanley looked over Tuloch’s shoulder and pointed. “How about that one?” 

A garbage speeder was approaching, gathering trash from the dumpsters to transport off-world. 

“Welp!” Stanley said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together excitedly. “Time to hijack a garbage truck!” 


	4. Chapter 4

Ford ran a hand through his hair, a frustrated growl escaping through his teeth. 

Emma May McGucket hadn’t heard from her husband in nearly five months. 

When Fiddleford left, Ford assumed that he’d gone home to California. Where else could he have gone? But now that he thought back on the haze of those weeks after Fiddleford’s incident—a blur of caffeine and sleep deprivation and a sickening laughter in the back of his mind—he could distantly recall a ringing phone that he now realized was his friend’s wife, trying to determine her husband’s whereabouts. 

Not that Ford would’ve been much help had he answered, anyway. 

He’d tried to call Fiddleford to ask for his assistance on a new project. He knew that he had no right to expect his former friend to come running, not after their falling out, but he was desperate. There was only one thing Ford could think of that _might_ be able to destroy Bill Cipher; destabilizing him on a quantum level. 

But although Ford could design the needed equations in theory, actually building such a weapon would require a technical know-how that, for all his schooling, he did not possess. 

He'd swallowed down the lump in his throat, mentally rehearsing the speech he’d prepared a hundred times over as well as responses to the questions he knew Fiddleford would ask. 

So he was more than a little surprised when Emma May answered the phone, distraught and demanding answers. 

“What do you mean, he’s not with you?” Ford had asked, confused at the sudden onslaught of shouted accusations. “He quit the project five months ago!”

Fiddleford had a small child—Tom or Tim, or something like that—and Ford could recall many an occasion where Fiddleford would show him pictures of his son, tell him some meaningless anecdote in a voice warm with pride and affection. Ford never really cared enough to pay close attention to his stories. Sometimes, he would even find himself slightly irritated. The picture Fiddleford painted of parenthood was a far cry from the stern, no-nonsense attitude of Ford’s own father, and something akin to jealousy kept him from delving into the subject further. 

But despite not knowing the details of Fiddleford’s home life as well as he should have, Ford was absolutely certain that he would never abandon his wife and child...unless something had happened. 

Ford rubbed a hand over his face. He could be _anywhere._ Perhaps he’d gotten into an accident on the drive home to Palo Alto, or been taken by criminals (though why anyone would want to kidnap his friend, he wasn’t sure), or maybe he’d finally snapped and decided that he couldn’t take it anymore and he…

No. Ford shook his head. No, Fiddleford had been broken and traumatized, but surely he wouldn’t be...that _couldn’t_ have been enough to drive him to suicide. 

Either way, searching for him was hopeless. Ford had no leads and no resources.

Wherever Fiddleford was, Ford certainly couldn’t help him. 

An image of Stanley, reaching for him as he was drawn through the portal, flashed across his mind. 

_"Stanford, do something!"_

Ford abruptly stood, pushing away from the desk. He shrugged his coat on and straightened his glasses. He would go into town, ask if anyone had seen him before he left. Perhaps Fiddleford had mentioned his travel plans to someone, or purchased supplies for the drive home. It was a slim chance at best, but Ford couldn’t give up as long as a tiny sliver of hope remained. 

He locked the door of the cabin behind him, and began the long trek into town. 

* * *

It only took about ten minutes to find him. 

Ford walked down the street, hands in his pockets. He received more than a few curious stares and could imagine what—or rather, _whom_ — the whispered conversations were about. It was for this very reason that he made it a point to avoid going into town unless he absolutely had to. He was well aware of his reputation as the “mysterious science guy that lives in the woods.” 

A sudden _CRASH!_ made him jump. At an intersection down the street, smoke rose from the crumpled forms of two cars. A crowd had already gathered around the wreck. Morbid curiosity getting the better of him, Ford made his way over to see what had happened. 

“You could’ve killed me!” a man was yelling, gesturing angrily to his truck—which, judging by the sizeable dent in the side, had been t-boned by the other vehicle. A scrawny man staggered from the other car, which was in far worse shape, rubbing his head in a daze. Something about him was familiar, but Ford couldn’t quite place it…

His eyes widened and he gasped. No. It couldn’t be. Could it? 

“I...I reckon I must’ve been distracted,” the man said, wringing his hands. “I’m sorry, terrbibbly sorry—terrbib—my, seems I’m forgettin’ words again.” 

There was no mistaking that thick southern twang. It was Fiddleford. 

“Yeah, well, you’re paying for the repairs, buddy!” the other man said before turning to speak with the police officers that had just arrived on the scene. The crowd gradually dispersed, murmuring to each other. Fiddleford sat on the curb, cradling his left arm and staring at the wreckage. After a moment’s hesitation, Ford approached him. 

“Fiddleford?” 

The man looked up, and Ford had to choke back another gasp. His friend looked awful. His face was lined with stress and bags drooped under his eyes. His hair was graying and nearly gone, and it seemed he hadn’t shaved in at least a week. His arm was most definitely broken, but it was that dazed, confused look in his eyes that cut Ford the deepest. 

Sweet Moses. What had happened? 

Fiddleford frowned up at him, cocking his head to the side. “You seem mighty familiar. Have we met?” 

Oh no. No, no, no. 

He had been using the memory gun. 

Ford cursed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Fiddleford, I warned you against using that device! What were you _thinking?”_

Fiddleford flinched at his tone. “Ah. So you know about the Society, then.” 

“The Society? What—” Ford’s eyes widened. “Wait...the Society of the Blind Eye? That was _you?”_

Fiddleford looked away sheepishly. 

“Of course...a brainwashed, mind-erasing cult. Why am I not surprised?” 

“Hey now, it’s not a cult!” Fiddleford snapped. “It’s a service to the community! We help people forget what would otherwise keep ‘em up at night!” 

“Listen to me, Fiddleford—”

“Oh, just like _you_ listened to _me,_ huh? I _told_ you that portal was nothin’ but trouble, but who was I to question the great Stanford Pines? I was just your _assistant,_ and you never…” Fiddleford trailed off, scratching his head. “Wait, no...that can’t be right. The…the gun, it’s supposed to…” He began muttering under his breath. After a few minutes, he turned back to Ford. Upon seeing him, he smiled brightly. The space where a tooth had once been gaped at Ford, and his heart clenched painfully. 

“Howdy, stranger! What can I do you for?” 


	5. Chapter 5

Stan was shoved to his knees. The imposing figure of a tentacled pirate towered over him, and with frightening nonchalance he stuck his gun under Stan’s jaw. A crew of around twenty aliens were gathered behind him, muttering amongst themselves. 

“Where’s the other one?” 

Stan glared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” 

The captain hummed. “Oh, I think you do. He has something that belongs to me, and I’d like it back.”

Stan thought of the flash drive containing the map. _So much for treasure hunting, eh, Tuloch?_

“Well, tough luck,” Stan said. “I’m the only one here. Maybe next time you hijack a ship, try making sure—” 

The gun slammed into Stan’s face, nearly knocking him over. His ears rang and stars flew in front of his eyes. He was suddenly taken back to the boxing ring, the smell of sweat and blood permeating the air. He shoved the memory down as quickly as it had arisen. 

“I’ll ask once more,” the captain continued calmly. “Where is Gerphys?” 

Stan slowly lifted his head and whispered something under his breath. The captain leaned closer. His face resembled a human’s, but with octopus-like skin and bloodshot eyes. When he spoke, Stan caught a glimpse of pointed teeth. 

“Speak up, son.” 

Stan growled and spat in his face. 

The captain stood with a sigh, frowning. He slowly wiped the blood off with one tentacle and pressed the gun to Stanley’s forehead with the other. “Shame,” he said. “You’ve got spirit. It’s almost a waste to kill you. But if you won’t talk…” 

He pulled back the hammer with a _click._ Stanley tensed, heart racing. _This is it. Six months in this_ **_(CENSORED)_ ** _multiverse, and Squid Face is the one to off me. Just my luck._

He closed his eyes. 

_I wonder how Ford is doing._

Just before the captain pulled the trigger, two pirates entered the room, dragging a beaten and bloody Tuloch between them. “Captain, we found him! He was hiding in a smuggling compartment.” 

They threw him to the ground beside Stan. The captain pulled back his gun with a grin as Tuloch got to his knees. 

“Well, well. Nice of you to join us, Gerphys.” He holstered his gun and grabbed Tuloch’s chin, roughly jerking him back and forth. “My, the years haven’t been kind to you, old friend.” 

“Zerxes,” Tuloch said flatly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Zerxes straightened. “Cut the jrockna, Gerphys. I’ve been looking for you for a very long time. I received word that you’d been captured by the Collective, rotting away in the Reyjak system.” His reddened eyes narrowed. “So imagine my surprise when I discover that not only have you escaped, but you’re chasing after _my_ treasure.” 

“Tuloch, what’s this guy talkin’ about?” Stanley hissed. Tuloch didn’t meet his questioning eyes. 

Zerxes laughed. “I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s never been the most loyal—certainly not when he stabbed me in the back and stole my map.” He raised a tentacle, and the two pirates standing at either side of Tuloch raised their weapons. “Now tell me. Where is it?” 

Tuloch was silent. Zerxes raised an eyebrow. 

“Nothing? Well.” His eyes flicked to Stan, who was staring at Tuloch in a sort of bewildered horror. “Let’s try something different, then.” 

With the only signal being a slight nod from their captain, both pirates turned their weapons on Stanley. 

“No!” Tuloch said quickly. “He has nothing to do with this. Leave him out of it.” 

“You have until the count of three.” 

“Hey,” Stan said with a nervous smile, “why don’t we all calm down and talk about this—” 

“One.” 

Tuloch glanced at Stan, trembling slightly. “Zerxes, don’t do this.” 

“Two.” 

Stan turned to his friend with widened eyes. Oh, man. He was actually gonna let them kill him. Of course he was. He should’ve known, he’d told himself a hundred times not to trust anyone but he was an idiot, wasn’t he? Stanley Pines, the good-for-nothing, thickheaded—

“Three.” 

“WAIT!” 

Zerxes paused. 

“It’s...it’s here.” Tuloch reached a shaking hand into the space between his neck and shell. He pulled out a small flash drive, dangling from a cord. Stan recognized it immediately as the treasure map. Tuloch held it out and Zerxes snatched it, examining it closely. He finally nodded, satisfied, then pulled out his gun and shot the old alien point-blank. 

Tuloch fell back with a cry. Stan immediately rushed to his side, barely noticing as the captain raised a tentacle to stop his crew as they raised their weapons. 

“Hey buddy, it’s gonna be okay,” he said. “It’s not that bad. We’ll patch you up, no problem.” This was a lie, and Stanley knew it. A smoking hole was blasted in Tuloch’s chest, and his breathing was slow and raspy. 

“I’m sorry,” Tuloch whispered. “Should’ve told you…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stan said. “I mean, when you pulled out a map and asked if I wanted to go treasure hunting, I kinda figured there’d be a catch.” He tried to laugh, but it sounded wrong for some reason. He blinked away the moisture gathering in his eyes. 

Tuloch grabbed Stan’s arm with a clawed hand, pulling him down closer. Stan could barely hear his next words. “Zerxes...amy...tiz…” 

“I can’t understand you,” Stan said helplessly. “Just hold on, save your strength—” 

But Tuloch was no longer breathing. His hand slipped from Stan’s shoulder, falling limply to the ground. 

Stan squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. When he’d been alone in an unfamiliar and hostile multiverse, armed only with a universal translator given to him by some refugees...when he’d gotten arrested for pickpocketing a Collective officer and sent to that scummy prison planet...when the other prisoners thought it’d be fun to pick on the new guy...he knew that he’d have no one but himself to rely on. 

But then this old man stood up for him, told him stories about the strange worlds he’d seen, watched his back. And just like that, they were a team. They’d escaped from Reyjak-12, together. Pulled cons, together. Even started searching for a treasure that Tuloch had chased in his younger years, together. 

And now he was gone.

Stanley was roughly pulled away from his friend’s body. He struggled, shouting every obscenity he could think of and landing a few punches. But he was unsuccessful. The pirates dragged him onto their ship, Zerxes leading the way. 

The walkway closed up behind them, giving Stan his last glimpse of Tuloch lying on the floor of the ship he’d just begun to call home.


	6. Chapter 6

“FORD, HELP ME!” 

Stanley’s screams pierced the air as Ford ran, dodging asteroids and monstrous shadows. He was in a void, but the void was _chasing_ him, and it choked him and dragged him down, but he had to keep running, had to find Stanley—

“FORD!” 

Ford turned to face the agonized sound, and his stomach dropped. 

There he was, strung up in the air by glowing blue chains that were wrapped around his arms and neck. Despite the cries Ford had heard only moments before, Stan appeared to be unconscious, head bowed to his chest and hair obscuring his face from view. Ford rushed over and began pulling on the manacles, cursing. They wouldn’t come off. 

“Don’t worry, Stanley,” Ford muttered, fumbling with the chains. “I’m going to get you out of here.” 

Stan slowly raised his head, and Ford gasped. His brother had been beaten almost beyond recognition. His face was swollen and mottled with bruises, and a trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. 

“Ford…?” he rasped. “...that you?” 

Ford choked back a sob and instead nodded, swallowing thickly. “Yes, it’s me. It’s going to be alright, Stan.” 

A small, hopeful glimmer flickered in Stan’s eyes. 

But then Ford was thrown backwards by some invisible force—it was the void, it found him, it found him and it wasn’t going to let go, not ever—and he struggled even as his brother screamed, the shackles crackling with electricity. Stan’s body arched from the voltage and anguished cries tore from his throat, and somewhere in the darkness a discordant laugh was building, surrounding, _suffocating_ —

And suddenly Stan _wasn’t_ screaming, just dangling limply in his chains like a broken doll, and Ford yelled for it to stop, just make it stop—

And then it did. 

The electrical current halted. The blue chains dissipated, dropping Stanley to the ground in a crumpled heap. Whatever force had been holding Ford back was gone; a thick emptiness was all that was left in its wake. 

He rushed to his brother’s side and fell to his knees, turning him over. Stan remained completely slack as Ford frantically scrabbled for a pulse. His fingers were trembling, and although Ford was by no means a religious man, he found himself praying, desperately pleading for Stan to wake up, and he was _sorry,_ he was _so, so sorry…_

But Stanley didn’t wake up. 

Ford did. 

* * *

_“Time heals all wounds.”_

Ford would have very much liked to find whoever coined that particular phrase and break every part of their face. 

He rubbed his eyes with one hand, clenching the sheets with the other. It’d been a year now. Three hundred and sixty-five days, and each night was spent the same. 

Well, not _exactly_ the same. There were variations. Seemingly endless variations. 

Sometimes Ford would get there just as Stanley was impaled by some horrifying creature, able to do nothing but hold him close as Stan died in his arms. Other times they would be fleeing the Nightmare Realm together, and when Ford turned around Stan would just be _gone._ One of the worst had been when a ten-year-old Stanley, with a striped shirt and a gap-toothed smile, was mercilessly torn to pieces by a faceless beast while Ford was forced to watch. 

Some part of Ford wondered if he would ever become desensitized to the dreams. If there would ever come a day where he wouldn’t wake up in a cold sweat; if he’d ever be able to rest. 

But the larger part of him, the louder part, held fast to the belief that he _needed_ the nightmares. The guilt and horror they inflicted drove him forward. Kept him focused on his mission. Vengeance was a fire that required constant stoking, lest the rational side of his brain realize the impossibility of his task. 

(And he _deserved_ it, too. The guilt.) 

Ford rolled out of bed and made his way to his desk. For a while he stood there, staring down at the blueprints for the quantum destabilizer. It was nearly complete; all it needed was a power source. 

One way or another, Bill Cipher was going to pay. 

* * *

“There is nothin’ on Earth that’s gonna power this thing.” 

“We can’t give up now!” Ford snapped, crossing his arms. “We’ve been working on this for too long as it is, Fiddleford. We’re so close! Are you really willing to let all of our hard work—” 

“Careful, Stanford,” Fiddleford interrupted, in a voice that was quiet but cut to Ford’s center all the same. The tone was dangerous; not necessarily malicious or violent, that wasn’t it. No, it was ice cracking beneath feet on a frozen pond. Less a promise of harm, and more a warning of what was to come if you continued to tread. “The last time you carried on like that...well, we both know what happened.” 

Fiddleford had improved greatly over the past year. Emma May and Tate had moved up to Gravity Falls during his recovery, and it seemed that all of his memories had returned. And he was in no danger of forgetting anytime soon, either; the memory gun had been destroyed, and the blueprints burned. The Society of the Blind Eye had been dismantled, of course, though in the end that was more Ford’s doing than Fiddleford’s. And working with Ford on the quantum destabilizer had done wonders in reviving Fiddleford’s genius.

But even with all of the improvement, he would never be the same. 

They weren’t even thirty, and his face carried the lines of a man twice his age. He’d stopped pulling out his hair, but it was still much grayer than it should have been. And his eyes…

Well. 

At any rate, hoping for complete recovery would have been naive on Ford’s part. 

_“LOOKS LIKE MR. BRANIAC FINALLY GOT SMART!”_

He sighed and slumped into a chair. “You’re right, Fiddleford. Of course you are. But I _need_ to destroy Bill. He’s a threat to our universe, the entire fabric of reality. I...I need to rectify my mistakes.” 

Fiddleford gave him a strange, sympathetic look. 

“Well,” he said, “I’m not sayin’ we give up. I’m just sayin’ that no element or compound I know of’s gonna do the trick.” He took a long sip of coffee. “Not here, anyway.” 

Ford frowned, brows furrowing. “Are you suggesting…” 

“Look, Ford, you know full well that _I_ ain’t goin’ near that portal. But somewhere out there in the great wide multiverse, there’s gotta be _somethin’_ that can power the destabilizer. And if anyone can find it, it’s you.” 

Ford closed his eyes. The blue-white light of the portal flashed behind his lids. Fiddleford, a length of rope wrapped around his leg. Stanley, hand outstretched as he was drawn in. Ford took a deep, shuddering breath to calm his heart rate. _Focus on your intellect. You were going to need to go through eventually anyway, to find Bill. This is the only way._

He stood, hands clasped behind his back to still their trembling. Fiddleford looked at him with wide, worried eyes. Ford gave him a nod and a tight smile. 

“Then I suppose I’d better begin preparations.”


	7. Chapter 7

_ Looks like those boxing lessons paid off,  _ Stan thought as Thork’s fist swung at his face. 

He sidestepped and ducked, landing a quick blow to Thork’s midsection. Thork reeled back and roared, while Stan tried to discreetly massage his hand. It hurt despite the brass knuckles. That was the problem fighting this guy; he was literally made of rock.

“I’LL CRUSH YOU!” Thork bellowed. “I’LL SNAP YOU LIKE A STILGAUM!” 

“Still don’t know what that is, buddy,” Stan said. He punched Thork in the jaw, knocking him back. Around them, the crew cheered and applauded. Stan wiped blood from his lip. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Plietra slipping Braum some credits. He grinned. 

But he shouldn’t have gotten distracted. Thork took the opportunity and rushed him, and this time Stan was too slow to dodge. Thork tackled him to the floor and wrapped his stony fists around Stan’s neck. Stan wheezed and pounded on his arms, trying to leverage his feet enough to kick Thork away, but he was much too heavy. Black dots gathered across his field of vision. He couldn’t breathe. He began to panic, suddenly locked in a too-tight place with no light or oxygen. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, he’s going to die—

Suddenly, the weight lifted from Stan’s chest and Thork’s vice-like grip was gone. Stan gasped and sat up, rubbing his neck and wincing. The jeering of the crew died off into whispers as heavy footsteps made their way towards him. They stopped, the figure casting a shadow over him. 

Stan knew who it was even before he looked up.

_ Aw, crud.  _

Zerxes frowned down at him. Stan chuckled weakly and gave a small, two-fingered salute.

“Heya, Captain.” 

* * *

Emitess prodded Stan with her rifle as she marched him down to the brig. He turned and glared at her. 

“Was that really necessary?”

“No,” she said with a shrug. “But it’s fun.” She gave him a particularly hard jab, and he let out an indignant yelp. 

“Knock it off!” he said. “We both know I’m not gonna make trouble.” 

They were quiet for a few moments as they walked down the empty corridor. Emitess finally broke the silence with a sigh. 

“I don’t understand you.” 

Stanley furrowed his brow. “Huh?” 

“You keep testing his patience. Do you know how many people he’s killed for just  _ looking  _ at him the wrong way?” 

Stan thought of Tuloch. He forced a laugh. “Nah, but I can guess.” 

“So why in the _ multiverse _ do you keep starting fights?!” Emitess exploded. “Do you  _ enjoy  _ sleeping in a cell? Is that it?” 

“Hey, Thork was the one who started it,” Stan snapped. “Well, this time, anyway. Besides, a good brawl now and then keeps up morale! You said it yourself, if ol’ Squid Face didn’t like me, I’d be dead by now.” 

Emitess hissed through her teeth, and Stan winced. He should probably lay off the squid jokes, especially since she was the same species. There were quite a few of them on the ship; Lijjna, they were called. They all shared the same octopus-like skin, reddened eyes, and sharp teeth, but aside from that, each was unique. Emitess was more of a mottled green than Zerxes’ blue skin tone, and rather than tentacles for arms, she had suction cups lining her hands and forearms. Gobry, one of the engineers, had a “beard” of short, stubby tentacles, and webbed fingers. He also had inky black tentacles tattooed up his arms, and he had actually been the one to tattoo Zerxes’ insignia on Stan; every crew member had one. 

“Well, just be careful,” Emitess said. “Because as soon as you cease to be useful, he’ll toss you aside. You’re not irreplaceable.” 

“Careful, Emmy,” Stan said with a grin. “I might start thinking you care.” 

They reached the brig. Emitess rolled her eyes and shoved him into cell B, slamming the door behind him. 

Stan let the smile slip from his face once she was gone. He sunk onto the cot, wincing at his various injuries. Man, Thork really did a number on him. He removed his jacket and shirt to inspect the damage. 

A few cuts, but nothing too serious. Mostly just bruises where Thork had landed lucky hits. Stan absentmindedly rubbed his shoulder, tracing the raised flesh where Ford—where he’d been branded. His fingers brushed against the other scars lining his back, long white lines caused by the repeated whippings he’d been given upon his capture. He sighed and pulled his shirt back on, then laid down. 

How long had it been since he fell through that portal? He wasn’t sure. It felt like years had passed between him being taken as a slave, then working his way up to become a member of the crew. But in reality, it had only taken about six months. Most of that time was spent in this cell. But it smelled better than the barracks, and at least here he had personal space. 

The physical labor had gotten him into shape, too. After hitting puberty he’d always had a bit of pudge, and surviving off of cheap fast food for ten years certainly hadn’t done his body any favors. But although he’d lost quite a bit of weight on Reyjak-12 and during his travels with Tuloch, he’d gained it all back as muscle. 

He wondered if Ma and Pa would even recognize him. 

“Hey, Stan!” 

Stan sat up quickly. A furry red alien with wide eyes and pointed, lynx-like ears stood outside his cell. “Hey, Braum! How much did we get?” 

Braum grinned, pulling a pouch of credits from his pocket and jingling it happily. “Almost two hundred. You can take quite the beating, jrickna.”

Stanley rubbed his hands together and cackled. “Next planet we stop on, we are getting  _ so  _ drunk.” 

Braum pocketed the money and frowned, scratching his behind his ear. “You think Zerxes will have let you out by then?” 

Stan shrugged and leaned back carelessly, lacing his hands behind his head. “Aw, I’m not too worried,” he said. “He’ll keep me in here for the night, then stick me on janitorial for the rest of the week.”

“If you say so,” Braum said. “Oh, and before I forget, Lizzy told me to give you this.” He stuck a wrapped parcel through the bars. Stan ripped it open eagerly and laughed. 

“She’s a saint!” Lizzy, the cook, knew how much he loved her signature meat pastries. He stuffed one in his mouth, giving Braum a sunny smile as he chewed, and Braum made a noise of disgust. 

“Yeah, yeah. Alright, jrickna, sleep well.” 

Once he was alone, Stan laid back down, staring at the rusting metal ceiling. The smiley faces he’d lasered in with his pen (before it was confiscated) stared back at him. It wasn’t unlike looking up at the doodles he’d scribbled on the underside of Ford’s bunk.

_ “Goodnight, Stan!”  _

_ “Goodnight, Ford!”  _

He sighed and turned over. He knew there was no sense dwelling on the past. Then again, he didn’t have a lot of sense. He was the high school dropout, the failed salesman, the homeless vagabond that was banned from thirty-two states. Even out here in the multiverse, he couldn’t be anything besides a two-bit criminal. 

He was just beginning to drift off to sleep when a loud clanging shook his cell. He shot upright, and saw Thork standing on the other side of the bars. 

“Thork, buddy. How ya holdin’ up?” 

Thork scowled at him. Bandages were wrapped around various areas of stone that seemed to be crumbling. “Captain wants to see you,” he grumbled. 

“Now?” 

“NOW.” 

Stan groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Alright, I’m up, I’m up.” 

* * *

They marched down the corridor in silence. Stan reached into his pocket and offered Thork the remaining meat pastry. Thork glared at it suspiciously for a moment before begrudgingly accepting. 

Thork knocked on the door to Zerxes’ study. It slid open with a soft  _ hiss.  _

Stan stepped inside, somewhat hesitantly. The door closed behind him. 

“Stanley Pines,” Zerxes said, sitting in a luxuriously cushioned chair behind an ornate desk. He gestured to the seat across from him. “Please, have a seat.” 

Stan sat down rather stiffly, fidgeting a bit. “Is this about the fight? ‘Cause this time, it really wasn’t—”

Zerxes raised a tentacle to stop him. “No, it’s not that. I don’t like infighting amongst my crew, but…” He trailed off and shrugged. “We haven’t gone on any raids recently. It’s perfectly natural for pent-up aggression to need an outlet. It is what it is.” 

“Does that mean I won’t have to do janitorial?” 

“No.”

Stan sighed. It was worth a shot.

“What I called you here for is much more important.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled something out. It was a flash drive, dangling from a length of string. 

Stanley clenched his jaw. “Oh.”  _ I was wondering where that went.  _

“Oh, indeed. Remember when I asked if you knew anything about how to access this map?” 

Stan thought of the whip cracking against his back. He gritted his teeth.

“I told you then and I’m telling you now, I don’t know anything. Tul—Gerphys was the one who did all that stuff. Not me.” 

Zerxes steepled his tentacles. “Yes. Tell me, what do you know about Gerphys?” 

_ His favorite food was those roasted crab-things from Caelus. He hated sand, ‘cause it always got in his shell. He had a terrible poker face. He was a happy drunk. He was married to a woman named Vera, but he hadn’t seen her in twenty years. He loved birds, especially brightly-colored ones. One time, he visited a planet made entirely of stained glass, and he said it was the most beautiful place he’d ever seen. And I told him about the sunsets across the desert in New Mexico, and he said he’d like to see that someday.  _

“Not much,” Stan said. “He was just a guy I met in prison.” 

“The crew didn’t tell you anything?” 

Stan swallowed, clenching his fists under the table. “I mean, they told me the basics. He was your first mate, you had a falling-out, he grabbed the map and ran.” His fingernails dug painfully into his palms. “He was a backstabbing traitor.” 

Zerxes nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, well. I just wanted to be sure you were aware of the entire situation. You see, I’ve managed to bypass the encryptions Gerphys placed on the map, and tomorrow, we’ll be setting out to finish what we started all those years ago.”

Stan’s eyes widened. “Treasure?” 

“In a sense.” Zerxes plugged the drive into a holo-device on his desk, and the map appeared. “These are the coordinates to the planet Lethovar. A supernova wiped out the majority of its galaxy centuries ago, but according to legend, Lethovar’s crystalline structure absorbed the energy from the blast. What remains is a planet of crystals, each functioning as an unlimited power source.” He unplugged the flash drive, and the coordinates disappeared. “I’m sure you can imagine the monetary value of such crystals.” 

Stan fought to keep his face impassive. “Gerphys never told me about any of that.” 

“He didn’t approve of our potential buyers,” Zerxes said, his face hardening. “But if we manage this, then every single person on this ship would have enough credits to last a lifetime— _ two  _ lifetimes.” He stretched out a tentacle to Stan. “Well, Stanley? Can I count on you?” 

Stan thought of Tuloch, sputtering and gasping with a smoking hole in his chest. 

He took the outstretched tentacle and shook it. 

“Yes, Captain.” 


	8. Chapter 8

Ford stood in front of the portal, securing the straps of his knapsack around his shoulders. The incomplete quantum destabilizer was slung over his back, and a sour weight settled in the bottom of his stomach. He swallowed to keep it from rising. Throwing up would certainly not be a pleasant start to this voyage.

“What with our repairs and stablilizin’, it should spit you out a far cry away from the Nightmare Realm,” Fiddleford said, his voice crackling through the intercom. He’d opted to remain at the control panel, behind the glass window. Even so, Ford had noticed the engineer’s hands shaking as they restarted the machine—an observation he decided not to mention. “Data shows a Dimension H-452/beta. From what I can tell, it’s oxygenated. Unfortunately, that’s ‘bout  _ all  _ I can tell.” 

Ford nodded, determinedly refusing to turn around. If he looked back at his friend and away from the spinning blue-white light...if he allowed himself even a moment’s hesitation...he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go through with this. Second thoughts were not something he could afford. Not now. 

“Thank you for everything, Fiddleford,” Ford said, pulling goggles down over his eyes. This was it. This was really it. “If I don’t make it back, can you—”

“Aw, hush up,” Fiddleford interrupted. “You’re comin’ back. You  _ better _ come back, ‘cause I ain’t jumpin’ in after ya.” He laughed, though it sounded hoarse and trembly, and Ford chuckled despite himself. 

“Yes, well. I’d best be off.” He stepped over the caution line, pulse thrumming in his ears. The energy that wasn’t quite a breeze ruffled his hair. His scarf and the lapels of his coat drifted upwards, while his feet remained planted solidly on the ground.

Somewhere, in a distant universe, Bill Cipher laughed. 

_ “Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world!”  _

Ford closed his eyes and stepped through the portal. 

* * *

Whatever he had been expecting, H-452/beta was not it. 

He pulled down his goggles, mouth hanging open in disbelief. He was in a sort of intergalactic bazaar; crowds of humans and aliens alike filled the streets. Stalls advertised everything from pink, spiny fruit, to hoverboards, to shimmering dresses seemingly made of pixels. One merchant threw himself in front of tanks filled with pulsating, glowing bubbles as a pack of dog-like creatures stampeded past. Officers in white uniforms, each bearing a logo vaguely resembling a “C,” were in the process of arresting an alien with a feathered mohawk. 

In short, it was overwhelming. 

Ford quickly moved to the side of the street, avoiding the bustling and jostling of the crowd. He found himself next to a stand selling pens of all shapes and sizes. A particularly shiny ballpoint caught his eye, and he picked it up, then clicked it to inspect the nib. To his surprise, a red laser shot out, nearly frying his boot. He quickly clicked it off. 

A throaty laugh diverted his attention. “Kizmnct eqbp bpib, pcuiv. Gwc'zm tqsmtg bw twam iv mgm.” 

Ford turned to see the man selling the pens, a flabby purple alien with four arms. He frowned. “I’m sorry, but I can’t understand you,” he said loudly, pantomiming confusion. “I don’t speak your language.”

The salesman rolled his eyes. “Epib sqvl wn qlqwb lwmav'b kizzg i bzivatibwz?” He dug around behind the tabletop, then pulled out a bracelet-looking device. He held it out to Ford, motioning impatiently for him to take it. 

Ford studied it for a moment before clipping it around his wrist. It hummed to life, and glowing symbols flashed across its screen. 

“That better?” 

Ford looked back to the salesman. “Remarkable! Is this some sort of universal translator? I wonder how it manages to manipulate my hearing, rather than simply my voice.” He noticed that the salesman had a bracelet just like it—indeed, now that he was looking for it, every single passerby had one as well. 

“I’m guessing you’re not from around here, then,” the purple alien said, eyeing him carefully. “What, you come from a closed dimension?” 

“Interdimensional travel is new to me, if that’s what you mean.” 

The salesman nodded. “Right. Then I don’t suppose you have any credits to give me for that translator, huh?” 

Ford’s eyes widened. “Oh, um, I don’t have any money currently, but—”

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” he said, waving him off. “It’s standard issue anyway, I got a bunch lying around.” 

“Th-thank you,” Ford said, rather taken aback by his good fortune. “That’s extremely generous of you.” He looked down at the translator a moment before hesitantly continuing. “Can you tell me where I am?” 

“Most everyone calls this place BetaHub,” the salesman said. “It’s the biggest marketplace in the multiverse, so we get lots of travelers. It’s your one-stop-shop for basically everything. The Collective keeps putting restrictions on us merchants, though, and travel taxes have increased…” He shrugged. “Eh, nothing to be done about it anyway. There’s a pretty extensive black market on the south side, but I wouldn’t recommend it. No officers patrol down there, so pirates raid the place just about every week.” 

“Fascinating,” Ford said, fingers itching for his journal. He shook the thought away. No, he needed to stay focused on the mission. Find a power source, destroy Bill. And, if he didn’t die a horrible death, it seemed entirely probable that, in this realm of multi-dimensional travel, returning home wasn’t as impossible as he’d thought. 

So. Find a power source, destroy Bill, return home. Easy peasy. 

He thanked the salesman again before setting off down the busy street, scanning stalls and storefronts for anything remotely power source-like. 

He sighed at the endless expanse of shops before him. 

Easy peasy. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated this story. I'll do my best to be more consistent from now on.  
> A huge thanks to all of you that have taken the time to read, comment, and leave kudos—I was actually considering deleting this (confidence issues are great, aren't they?) until I saw how many people actually wanted to see it continue.  
> I'm so sorry if this chapter is underwhelming. Please don't hate me. I'll try harder.

Stan was mopping section 16-B when the familiar _thrum_ of the ship entering a planetary atmosphere signaled their arrival. He rushed to the nearest window, and couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. The planet beneath them wasn’t crystally enough to be Lethovar; it looked more like a jungle than anything else. 

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” 

Stan yelped and jumped back, brandishing the mop like a weapon. A short, slimy green creature that more or less resembled a pile of jello stood beside him, peering out the window. 

Stan let out an exasperated sigh. “Rori, we’ve talked about this. You can’t sneak up on people like that.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Rori didn’t _look_ especially sorry, but emotions were hard to gauge with him, seeing as he didn’t really have a face. Just a mouth. 

“Did the Captain say where we’re landing?” 

Rory shrugged. “Just a nowhere planet in the Hortus system. Primitive people, good for a raid.” 

Stan frowned. In the six months he’d been on Zerxes’ ship, he’d only participated in two raids. But both of those had been more or less sticking up wealthy shopping districts on cosmopolitan planets, and Zerxes had explicitly stated that there were to be no casualties. The Collective tended to seek justice for the rich and powerful, after all. 

Stan doubted the same would apply to rural villages in war-torn systems like Hortus.

Maybe it was a good thing he was stuck on janitorial. 

“Oh. Uh, have fun, I guess.”

Rori stood silent, still looking out the window. He suddenly turned to Stan. 

“I won twenty credits off of you and Thork’s fight.” 

Stan grinned. “What, you came to tell me thank you?” 

“No, I came to _warn_ you. Plietra lost fifty, and she’s not happy about it.” 

“Then maybe she shouldn’t always bet on me going down so soon,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But thanks for the heads-up, I guess.” 

Rori made a sound of assent and jello-d away. A shiny trail of green slime followed after him. 

Stan groaned and readied his mop, and got to work cleaning up the mess. 

* * *

The crew returned a few hours later, laden with food and meager possessions. 

Stan glanced up as the prisoners were marched past him. The Hortus people could have been mistaken for humans, were it not for the vibrant pink color of their skin. There were four men, two women, and a teenage boy. Stan’s gut churned—he knew what would happen next. They’d be led to the dungeons and beaten into submission. If they held up long enough, Zerxes himself would give them a few dozen lashings. And then they’d either be sold into slavery on BetaHub or offered a place among the crew, depending on their stamina and the captain’s current mood. 

He caught the eye of the boy, but quickly averted his gaze. 

_You don’t have to like it,_ he reminded himself. _You just need to survive long enough to kill Squid Face. That’s all that matters._

That had been Stan’s endgame ever since Zerxes blasted a smoking hole through Tuloch’s chest. His to-do list was simple:

  1. Kill Zerxes.
  2. Find a way back home. 



Of course, the list was gradually becoming longer as time wore on. Because killing Zerxes wouldn’t matter if he was immediately killed by the crew. So now, his list looked like this:

  1. Befriend the crew—gain their trust by acting like the reckless idiot they all assumed he was anyway, and move through the ranks. (He was doing fairly well with this step, so far.)
  2. Stage a mutiny.
  3. Kill Zerxes.
  4. Find a way back home.



Except, it would be hard to find a way home without credits. Money was a universal incentive (well, _multi_ versal, in this case), and there was no way Stan would be able to get back to his own dimension without supplies, information, and specialized tech. So…

  1. Befriend the crew.
  2. Stage a mutiny. 
  3. Kill Zerxes. 
  4. Get those treasure-crystals from Lethovar.
  5. Sell those treasure-crystals from Lethovar. 
  6. Find a way home. 



But wait—Zerxes was the only one with the map. And even if they _did_ stage a mutiny, he’d definitely destroy it so that they’d have incentive to keep him alive. And the longer Zerxes was alive, the higher the likelihood that some of the more loyal crew members would turn against the rest of them. 

Alright. 

  1. Befriend the crew. 
  2. Get those treasure-crystals from Lethovar.
  3. Stage a mutiny. 
  4. Kill Zerxes.
  5. Sell those treasure-crystals from Lethovar.
  6. Find a way home. 



Stan nodded to himself. He could work with this. It wasn’t perfect, but he could work with this.

“Stan!” 

He was snapped from his thoughts as a three-eyed woman with purple highlights angrily stormed up to him. 

“Hey, Plietra,” he said with a nervous smile. “How’s it hangin’?” 

She raised a hand to slap him. He flinched away and covered his face. 

“Whoah, whoah, whoah! Not the face! Gotta keep this masterpiece pristine!” 

Plietra rolled her eyes and kicked him in the shin instead. Stan howled in pain. 

“Fifty credits,” she hissed. “I lost fifty credits because _you_ told me beforehand you were gonna throw the fight!” 

“Okay, okay...but in my defense—”

“You and Braum are the absolute worst.” She kicked him in the other shin, and Stan swore, hugging his knee to his chest. “You two _always_ leave me out, and I’m sick of it! Include me in your dumb cons for once!” 

“Fine, fine, geez! Next time, you’re in! Just stop _kicking_ me!” 

She glared at him, all three of her eyes narrowing. “You owe me fifty credits,” she finally said, turning on her heel and stomping off. 

“Yeah?” Stan called after her. “And you owe me a new pair of legs!” 

Without turning around, Plietra made a rather rude gesture. 

It looked like step one was going to be harder than he thought. 


End file.
